


You Picked Me Up (And Put Me Back on Solid Ground)

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam will always look up to Dean and Dean will always be there, protecting him. [reposted]</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Picked Me Up (And Put Me Back on Solid Ground)

Once when Sam was a kid, he went on a classtrip to an art museum. He doesn't remember much of it anymore – wouldn't be able to tell you where they'd lived at the time, how old he'd even been and he doesn't remember any of the names of the kids he'd been in class with. He remembers standing in front of a painting though, a huge canvas showing the silhouette of a guy with a bright orange light in the background that reminded Sam of fire.

He doesn't know the name of the painting or the artists. It probably didn't even look the way Sam remembers it, because he doubts the silhouette actually resembled Dean as much as it does in Sam's memory.

But staring at the painting all those years ago, drowning out his teacher as she talked about art, Dean had been the first thought on Sam's mind. He'd had been all Sam had seen looking at the outline of the black figure, the light from behind making him look larger than life, invincible – like he was ready to take on the world, not a trace of fear in the sure stance. It had been Dean, standing tall and strong, not afraid of anything in the world.

He'd pictured himself behind the silhouette, behind _Dean_ , invisible to everyone, always safe and protected. Dean always a step ahead of Sam so nothing could ever get to him.

Sometimes, Sam feels like that hasn't changed. Like Dean is still that looming, large figure that Sam can hide behind, like Dean is an immovable force standing between Sam and the rest of the world. 

He thinks it's a little bit ironic that he grew up to be taller than Dean, that he can physically overpower Dean now. It still catches him by surprise when he turns to look at Dean sometimes and finds himself having to look down instead of up. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to it. He will always look up to Dean, no matter how tall he is, and see that guy from the painting, the one that will shield him and keep him safe.

+

The first time they have sex, they're both drunk.

The door to the bathroom is open, too-bright fluorescent light shining in while the rest of the room is dark. It throws weird shadows onto Dean's face, making his jawline look sharper, his expression unreadable as Sam stares up at him. He looks beautiful like this, unreal.

Dean's thrusts are hard and sloppy, and Sam feels like each snap of Dean's hips is pushing the air right of his lungs, making him gasp and squirm, fingers digging into Dean's biceps.

"Sammy," Dean hisses, and just that one word makes Sam's stomach swoop. 

He feels like he's spinning out of control, alcohol and arousal making him dizzy and desperate. He wants to clutch at Dean, keep them like this forever, never wants to lose the feeling of Dean inside of him, cock big and hard, stretching him open.

Dean is everywhere. Inside him, around him, wrapping Sam up and filling him until Sam feels like there's nothing else in the world, until Dean is all there is. He feels too small and too huge all at once, feels like his body can't possibly contain everything he feels in that moment and the heavy weight of Dean's body pressing him down into the mattress is the only thing keeping him from bursting apart.

+

Sam spends the morning after slumped over the toilet. His stomach is cramping painfully and he can't stop retching even when there's nothing left to throw up. The stench of puke makes him feel even more nauseous and he thinks he might pass out any moment, feeling clammy and shaky.

It feels like an eternity passes before his stomach finally settles a little, and Sam closes his eyes and takes even, deep breaths.

"Sam." Dean's voice is pained, scratchy and when Sam turns his head he finds him standing in the doorway, looking just as broken as he sounds.

"You need..." Sam gestures at the toilet weakly. "I think I'm done for now."

Dean shakes his head, eyes trained on Sam.

"'kay...God, please don't ever let me drink that much again," Sam says miserably, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He heaves himself up, hand pressed against the wall to steady himself and then slowly shuffles to the sink. 

He swishes water around his mouth carefully, not daring to brush his teeth and risking the nausea to come back even though the inside of his mouth tastes like something died in there.

Dean is still rooted to the spot, blocking the entrance to the bathroom and Sam doesn't bother trying to get past him. He moves in close, resting his head on Dean's shoulder even if he has to bend down to do it. His hand settles on Dean's hip, thumb brushing against the skin just above the waistband of the briefs Dean is wearing. Sam is still stark naked, except for the one sock on his left foot that they must have forgotten about in their haste to get naked the previous night. 

"Sam," Dean says again, voice softer this time and he places a hand on the back of Sam's neck, cool and reassuring and Sam sighs. "Are you okay?"

Sam breathes in, closing his eyes. Dean smells of stale sweat and sex and it should be disgusting, but it makes warmth pool in Sam's stomach instead.

"I haven't been this hungover in years, I think," he replies, lips brushing against the skin of Dean's neck.

He feels Dean's second hand come up, fingers carding through his hair almost hesitantly. "Apart from that," Dean presses, voice soft. "You okay?"

Sam knows that what Dean is really asking is if he's okay with the fact that they had sex last night, that they crossed a line they shouldn't have crossed. Except, Sam thinks, this has always been inevitable – they were both just too blind to see it. He feels a little stupid for never having seen this coming, because how could Sam ever have thought he could love someone else, when Dean has been all Sam ever really saw? How could he have thought that someone else could ever love him the way Dean does?

"I'm good," he admits, squeezing Dean's hip reassuringly. 

His head is pounding, and there's dried come on his stomach that makes his skin feel itchy and he stinks of puke and sweat. But Dean is there, holding him, and Sam feels like nothing in the world could possibly get to him as long as they stay like this.

+

The thing about only seeing the silhouette of a person is that you don't actually see them. You see nothing but a black figure back-lit by bright light, big and looming and unreadable. That's what Dean looks like to the world. Sam's seen him kill enough monsters and demons, seen him face danger head-on, unfraid and undefeatable, to know that Dean is all that. But he's also seen Dean go to any length to keep Sam safe, to keep him alive, to keep his family together. He's maybe the only person in the world who knows Dean. Who knows that Dean isn't untouchable, their life hasn't left him unscathed - but he's still alive, still surviving, still fighting.

He's still shielding Sam from the world, protecting him, even now that Sam stands a few inches taller than Dean. He will always think of Sam as his little brother, the one person he needs to keep safe at all expense. 

"You're like that painting," Sam whispers one afternoon, lips brushing against the stubble on Dean's jaw, words spoken into his skin. 

They've been lying in bed all afternoon, between jobs and nowhere to be. Sam is straddling Dean, their hands roaming over naked skin as they make out lazily. There's no hurry today, and Sam thinks he likes moments like this best, when there's no rush, no need.

Dean snorts. "What painting?" he asks.

Sam sits back, and Dean rocks his hips up a little, pressing his still soft dick against Sam's ass. 

Sam shrugs. "Nothing. You just remind me of a painting I saw once."

"Yeah? One of those paintings showing a hot naked guy? Like a Greek Adonis or something?" Dean asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Sam laughs and leans down to press his lips to Dean's, still smiling. Dean kisses him back eagerly, teasing his tongue between Sam's lips.

"So. Hot naked guy?" Dean asks when they break apart, nipping at Sam's lower lip playfully.

"No," Sam whispers, cupping Dean's face and bringing their lips back together. "No, nothing like that."

Dean makes a question noise. "You saying I'm not hot, Sammy?"

"I would never," Sam denies and laughs. He traces his fingers over the smattering of freckles on Dean's cheek, the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "Just...different painting."

He kisses Dean again before Dean can say anything, ask any more questions. He kisses Dean until Dean forgets all about it, their breathing becoming heavier and tension growing thick between them. Dean flips them over then, pinning Sam's arms over his head and grinding their bodies together.

Sam arches up against Dean's body, hooks his leg around Dean's waist. 

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean moans, resting his forehead against Sam's as they rock against each other. "So fucking good."

His breath fans over Sam's face, hot and damp, lips only inches apart. This is the Dean of Sam's painting – strong and in charge and taking care of Sam. And Sam is the only one who gets to see this, gets to have Dean like this. Dean is his, just like Sam is Dean's.

"Dean," Sam breathes out, angling his head up until he can kiss Dean. 

"I love you," he murmurs against Dean's lips. "I love you."

Dean shudders, a broken moan slipping from his lips, and Sam feels hot, sticky come splashing against his stomach.

+

Sam likes to think they've faced it all. Ghosts, monsters, demons. Things they read up about in books, things their dad told them stories about, things they'd never heard of before.

In a dark alleyway in Upstate New York, a guy points a gun at Dean. He's not possessed, he's not some supernatural creature, he's not even insane. He's simply human, eyes glinting cold and gun hold steady, pointing right at Dean's head.

Dean, who only has a knife on him, holy water and salt that won't protect him from a simple man. Dean, who moved in front of Sam the second he saw the gun.

Sam doesn't hesitate, doesn't think. He draws his own gun, steps out from behind Dean and fires.

He almost doesn't register the second gun shot, or the searing pain. He doesn't feel regret, only a surge of relief as he watches the man crumble to the ground.

Dean's hands are on him immediately, turning him around, eyes searching Sam's face as his hands roam over Sam's body. They come away bloody.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean hisses. "Fuck. You're hurt."

"It's not that bad," Sam says but grimaces in pain as he feels his arm burn where the bullet grazed him. "I'm okay."

"You're not okay."

"Dean. I've had worse," he protests and steps closer, bringing up his unharmed arm to cup Dean's cheek. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean huffs. "Because my idiot brother stepped between me and a psycho with a gun."

Sam laughs softly and presses his lips to Dean in a dry, hard kiss. "And I'd do it again. Anytime," he murmurs. 

"Idiot," Dean repeats, kissing him again, hard and bruising, before pulling back. "Come on. We need to patch you up and then get the hell out of here."

Sam doesn't protest as he follows Dean down the alley, around the apartment complex to where the Impala is parked.

His arm hurts, but he smiles anyway. Maybe, he thinks, sometimes it's his turn to be the guy in the painting, standing between Dean and the rest of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Three Doors Down's "Kryptonite".


End file.
